Authors: William Bernhardt
13
C
ommon Beltway wisdom dictated that in reality, it was not senators, congressmen, or Presidents that controlled Washington—it was lobbyists. Richard Trevor was thinking about having that etched into a paperweight.
“Mr. Trevor,” said his young-and-gorgeous-but-much-too-eager-to-please new assistant, Melody McClain. “Do you want to see my report?”
“Behind me, Melody. At least three steps behind me.”
Trevor didn’t mean to be rude—well, in truth, he supposed he did—but he had to get his point across. He had an image to protect. People saw him as a maverick, a Washington outsider, even when he was very much inside the city limits, jogging his third lap around the Reflecting Pool at the foot of the Washington Monument in the Main Mall. It was a beautiful day; he could smell the cherry blossoms. In truth, he hated jogging, thought it was as boring as anything on earth, except possibly golf. But he liked to maintain a vigorous, youthful image. It was important for the leader of the Christian Congregation, one of the most powerful lobbies in the country, one that helped put the last three Presidents in office, to maintain the proper image. So he jogged. His staff could accompany him, but they had to maintain a respectful distance—which was exactly far enough to ensure that they wouldn’t appear in any photos the stalkerazzi might be snapping.
Melody continued huffing several steps behind him. She was unaccustomed to jogging. Especially with a clipboard in both hands. “Sir, I think the report will tell you everything you need to know about Thaddeus Roush.”
“I already know everything I need to know about Thaddeus Roush,” he replied. “The man is a homosexual.” He pronounced the word with two long “o’s” and a strong accent on the first three syllables. “He is not a suitable candidate for the highest court in the land.”
“He does have a good record. Sound decisions, persuasive reasoning. And consistently conservative.”
“Doesn’t matter. We cannot place our trust in a man who would lie down with another man.” Of course, he quietly reminded himself, many Old Testament figures who for sometimes difficult-to-comprehend reasons were the chosen children of God did it. But never mind that. “Sodomy is a plague upon our great country. It must be eradicated.”
“Sir, homosexuality has existed since the dawn of time. I don’t think it can be eradicated. Only persecuted.”
“Melody,” he said, without breaking his stride, “are you disagreeing with me?”
“Of course not, sir. Just…playing devil’s advocate. Previewing what your opponents will say.”
“I already know what my opponents will say, the heathen and the communists and the godless lesbian feminists and their ilk. Please do not talk to me in that manner again.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I just—”
“That is exactly the kind of soft liberal thinking that has brought our nation to the low place where it is today. Immorality destroyed the Roman Empire, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, sir.”
Was he perhaps a trifle oversensitive on this subject? Yes, he would be willing to admit that he was. Particularly since he had so often been accused of being homosexual when he was growing up. There was no truth to it—none whatsoever! But the accusation kept rearing its ugly head, time after time. It was because of the way he looked, his eternal baby face. Maybe the somewhat high pitch of his voice. He had tried growing a beard—didn’t help. It came in wispy and unpersuasive. He tried lowering his voice, but it never sounded natural. Like Jim Nabors when he sang. Fake. Better to be himself and let the world judge him by his actions, not his God-given appearance.
He rounded the corner of the pool and started toward the Lincoln Memorial. There was a time when he would have been flattered by the attention of a lovely woman such as Melody, someone who had shown up at his office professing her devotion to the cause of Christian politics, someone who had made it all too clear that she would do anything—and she did mean
anything
—for him. Not bad for a kid who used to be a supply youth minister in one of the poorest churches in Miami. But this was a temptation he could resist, that he must resist. It was important that he remain free of entanglements. That was why he had never married. His work—the holy task of reforming the nation and returning it to its fundamentalist Christian roots—took precedence over everything else.
“Will we be seeing Judge Haskins today, Melody?”
“No, sir. He had a conflict.”
“Did he, now?”
“Ever since that fire at the Hilton, he’s been red hot. No joke intended, sir.”
“So he’s too busy to see me? Is that what you’re telling me, Melody?”
She hesitated. “He says he never intended to draw attention to himself. He thought it would be unwise to be seen in public.”
“You mean—seen with me in public.”
“Well, yes. I’m sure it’s nothing personal, sir. He probably just felt that being seen with the leader of one of the top lobbies in the country could make it appear as if he were campaigning. As if he had a political agenda.”
As if there was someone in this town who did not. “Don’t be naïve. He’s balancing the damage that could result from being seen with a lobbyist against the damage that could result from offending a lobbyist. And he has evaluated the problem incorrectly. Lobbyists—”
“—run this town. Yes sir, I know.”
Was she being sharp, or just stupid? “There are over fifteen thousand lobbyists in this city, Melody. Think of it. More than all the senators and representatives and their staffs combined. Our influence is enormous.”
“That’s the Golden Rule, sir. He who has the gold makes the rule.”
He decided to ignore the blasphemy of her lame little joke. This time. “Money is important. Especially with the new campaign reform laws, they’re all sucking at whatever special-interest teat they can find, issues be damned. No Republican appointment in the last ten years has been made without my approval, and that includes congressional committee appointments. I buried Harriet Miers and I can bury this Roush chump even easier. The Senate has rejected twelve nominees over the years and sixteen have withdrawn under pressure—and someone like me has been behind every one of those outcomes. Politicians who want to go somewhere play ball with me. Those that don’t find every door slammed in their faces.”
“Money certainly will buy influence, sir.”
“It’s not money, at least not predominantly. What gives lobbyists our real power is information. We constantly gather information. I know more about Senator Keyes’s constituency, what they believe and what they like, than he does. Small wonder we’ve managed to maintain such a positive relationship. There are simply too many bills, too many issues. No politician can keep up with it all, be the expert on everything. So when some new issue arises and they suddenly need to do ten minutes on
Larry King
on a subject they know nothing about, they call the lobbyists. They can’t admit to ignorance—that’s simply not done. If they get caught with their pants down, they look like fools. More than one political career has been ended by a single bad interview or press conference. So we help them out. That’s how Washington works, Melody. We inflate their egos. And they give us everything we want.”
Trevor reached the end of his run. Another assistant was waiting with a towel and a chilled bottle of Gatorade. “Tell Judge Haskins I will see him in my office this afternoon at two.”
“He told me he has a—”
“Tell him to cancel it.” Trevor smiled. The blood slowly faded from his cheeks as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Regardless of whether he wants to be on the Supreme Court, I’ll bet he won’t turn it down if it’s offered.” He laughed and tossed her the dripping towel. “If he’s the right man for the job, I’ll get him marching in step.”
“Whether he likes it or not?”
“I will not accept—will not tolerate—a gay Supreme Court justice. Especially not this one.”
“Do—do you know Judge Roush?”
“I was at the press conference when that poor Christian soul was murdered. So were you, Melody, remember?”
“But you sound as if you really know him.”
“Oh yes. I know him. All too well. Him and all of his kind.” His eyes narrowed. “I will not allow this nomination to be confirmed. And if I have to crush Roush in the process—” He shrugged, then started back toward his office. “The will of God be done.”
14
“C
ould we get a picture of you with the baby?”
Judge Haskins looked down at the ground modestly and shuffled his feet. “Well…if it’s all right with her mother.”
“Is it all right?” Lynda Paul, the statuesque redhead standing beside the judge, beamed. “I can’t think of anyone with whom Nikki would be safer than her own guardian angel.” The crowd of reporters smiled appreciatively. She passed the baby into Judge Haskins’s arms and the flash bulbs went off like small rapid-fire explosions. “Next week, Nikki is going to be baptized. I’ve asked Judge Haskins to stand in as her godfather.” Her comment was greeted by a warm and enthusiastic response, even before she added, “If the man weren’t hitched, I’d ask him to marry me.”
Everyone laughed, and once again the minicams went into action. Margaret Haskins, her face still showing signs of the bruising she suffered in the fire, stepped beside them. “I might have a few words to say about that, young lady.”
Lynda wrapped an arm around Margaret and hugged her tight. “Why is it the good ones are always already taken?”
Judge Haskins looked seriously flushed. “This is too much fuss over too little. I only did what any other—”
“That’s obviously not true,” Lynda interjected, not even allowing him to finish. “There were over a hundred people trapped in that ballroom. But you were the only one who had the perspicacity to organize a team to get a door open. You saved your wife and my little Nikki.” She addressed the reporters. “I’d passed out. Someone got me outside, but they didn’t know about the baby, and I was far too out of it to tell them.” She looked at Haskins solemnly. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, sir.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense.”
“It’s true. You’re a hero. A bona fide American hero.”
The enthusiastic response from the press suggested that they concurred. They were gathered outside the Denver Children’s Hospital. The occasion was Nikki’s release and first day home after the explosion. Nikki’s mother had asked that the man who saved her baby’s life be present. He’d agreed; since the accident, he and his wife had become quite close to Lynda and her infant.
“Any plans for the future, Judge?”
He shrugged. “I’m just hoping all you people will go home and let me proceed with my work on the Tenth Circuit.”
“What do you think about the President’s nomination for the Supreme Court?”
Haskins’s neck stiffened. He turned slowly, his face emotionless. “I…don’t think it would be appropriate for me to comment.”
“A lot of pundits predicted that you would be the most likely nominee, given the enormous positive publicity following your heroic actions during the Hilton fire.”
“That—hardly proves anyone’s qualifications for the highest court in the land.”
“Maybe not,” another reporter rejoined, “but it suggests that you’d get confirmed in a heartbeat.” Pause. “Unlike the current nominee.”
Haskins shook his head, appearing extremely uncomfortable with the new topic. “I doubt if I’m even on the President’s radar. I’m just a humble federal appeals court justice—”
“So was John Roberts. Before he became the Chief Justice.”
Haskins started to speak again, but Lynda beat him to it. “Speaking for myself, I think he’d make a heck of a good Supreme Court justice. The Court could use someone with his courage. His inherent decency.” She looked at the judge lovingly. “And after you were appointed, you could hire me to be your clerk.”
Another round of laughter followed. Margaret tugged at her husband’s sleeve, as if to indicate that the conference was over. The reporters, however, were not willing to give up so easily.
“Judge Haskins, is it true you’ve been contacted by representatives of the Christian Congregation?”
“Oh, my phone rings off the hook every time you people do another story about me. Really, you need to move on to someone else.”
“The Christian Congregation is one of the largest and most influential lobbies in Washington. Some say they put President Blake in office. Surely if they back you, the President would have to consider nominating you.”
“I have no idea what the President might be thinking. I’ve never even met the man. And I really don’t think it’s appropriate for us to speculate—”
“At least tell us this, Judge, since everyone seems to agree that Thaddeus Roush’s nomination is doomed. If the President wanted to nominate you to the Supreme Court, would you accept?”
Margaret was still tugging at his sleeve, and his reluctance to answer was evident, but he finally managed. “A nomination to the U.S. Supreme Court is the highest honor any judge can receive. Obviously, I would have to give any such compliment serious consideration. But I want to emphasize that I do not seek—”
It was too late. The reporters had their story at the end of the second sentence. The rest was drowned out by footsteps and the background chatter of live remotes.
“Good heavens,” Haskins muttered under his breath as he and his wife headed for their car. “What have I done?”
His wife looked up at him, her eyes beaming with affection. “I’m no lawyer,” she said quietly. “But I think that very soon, you might be getting a call from the White House.”
15
“A
little more, Senator Keyes?”
Keyes held up his hand as if to refuse, then wavered. “Well, just a smidgen, Johnny. Helps me think.”
He smiled as his top aide poured the smoky liquid into his snifter. Keyes was pretty sure that whiskey did not in fact help anyone think, but it did help him get through the night.
Senator Josiah Keyes, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, leaned back, propped his feet on the edge of his long mahogany desk, and addressed his guests: Senator Matera of Wyoming, vice-chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, and Senator Potter, the fresh-faced kid from Oregon who was the newest member of the committee. For entirely different reasons, Keyes knew these were the two committee members he could count on most for unqualified support.
“This whiskey sipping is all right,” Matera said, a thin smile on her face, “but shouldn’t at least one of us be smoking?”
Keyes chuckled. Potter appeared puzzled.
“Ten years ago,” Keyes said, “I’d have filled the bill with a big Havana stogie. But not anymore.” He patted his ample stomach and swigged some more booze. “Gotta be careful about my health.”
“I don’t understand,” Potter said, working up enough nerve to admit his ignorance. “Why would we want to smoke?”
Keyes tried to prevent himself from appearing too patronizing. “So this would be a smoke-filled room.” He winked at Matera. “Didn’t you learn anything in civics class, son? That’s where all the real deals are made in Washington.”
“Ah.” Potter scratched his chin. “So, are we about to make a deal?”
“Would that we were in a position to make a deal. Probably be more accurate to say…we’re laying plans. Preparing for the future. Like any good generals might do.”
“I imagine we’re not the only ones in this town making a few plans tonight,” Matera ventured.
“That much is certain. Did you see the latest televised Haskins appearance?”
“At the hospital? Sure. Such a modest man! So unambitious.”
“That’s his story. But I’m willing to bet he read every one of those op-ed pieces recommending him for the nomination after Justice Cornwall died. I bet he was just as mad as I would be when he was passed over.” Keyes chuckled, which sent his considerable girth jiggling, girdled though it was by the vest of a three-piece suit. “Rule One of Washington politics: Never count your nominations until they’re hatched.”
“Whether he wanted the job before or not,” Matera replied, “now he’s got a second shot. If Roush fails, the President will want a sure thing so he can appoint a justice before his term expires. Everyone said before that Haskins was the most likely candidate.”
“Which is exactly why that dog won’t hunt.” The Texas aphorisms didn’t come to Keyes as easily as they once did, just as his Texas twang had faded after decades of spending the better part of the year in Washington. Except when he needed it. “How do the President’s boys explain why he wasn’t chosen before?”
“The President was punishing Haskins for his decision in
Barnett v. Adams.
He had a chance to narrowly conscribe
Roe v. Wade.
He didn’t take it.”
“And the Christian Congregation wanted him punished. But now that he’s had his hand slapped a little, they’re willing to reconsider. Assuming he’s willing to give them the assurances they require on certain hot-button issues.”
“You think he will?”
“You saw that media event at the hospital, right?” Keyes paused. “Hell, yeah, I think he’ll give them what they want. I think he’ll give it to them wrapped in gold leaf. The President will get everything he wants.”
“You’re missing the point,” Matera said. “It isn’t about what the President wants. It’s about what he can sell to the people who put him in office. If Haskins was unacceptable once, he’s still unacceptable.”
“Unless he does something to make himself more acceptable,” Keyes said sagely. “Which is, I would imagine, the whole point of his visit to our fair capital city. He needs to show he can be of invaluable service. Win back the good graces of the President via intermediaries.” He took another sip from his snifter. “If either of you hears about Haskins visiting with Richard Trevor or anyone else at the Christian Congregation, I want to know about it immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Potter piped in.
“Meanwhile, we must focus on giving the President what he wants from us. Thaddeus Roush dead.” He polished off his drink and motioned for a refill. “Dead in the water. Dead as a Supreme Court nominee.” He held his refilled beveled glass snifter up to the light, watching it refract into a rainbow of colors. “This is probably the biggest embarrassment of Blake’s career. Gives a rousing speech about what a great jurist this guy is, then the guy outs himself. Hell of a note, isn’t it? The Democrats are rallying support around a Republican nominee, and the Republicans no longer want anything to do with him.” He chuckled. “Suddenly President Blake, the staunch supporter of the Defense of Marriage Act, has nominated the first openly gay Supreme Court justice. If something doesn’t happen fast, he’ll lose his base of support. His approval ratings are already plunging. This mess could have negative ramifications for us all.” He stared at the prismatic glass a little longer. Maybe this stuff did help him think. “Has the Congregation taken any official position yet?”
“They’re stuck in the same conundrum as the President,” Matera explained. “Can’t afford to publicly denounce a Republican candidate. My people think they may be creating or funding a third-party lobbying group, something not officially tied to them, an organization with the freedom to speak out about this nomination. Sort of a Swift Boat Veterans for torpedoing a homosexual judge.”
“Wonderful.” Keyes drew in his breath slowly, his eyes becoming reflective. “Jessie, do you believe these people choose to be gay?”
Matera coughed. “Well, I…I…don’t really know much about it.”
“Did you choose your sexual preference?”
“I don’t recall ever having to give it much thought.”
“Exactly.” Keyes stretched, his hands behind his neck. “I don’t think people choose to be gay. Why would they? All the scientific studies indicate that it’s not chosen, not learned. Nature rather than nurture. And yet like it or not, this inclination written into the genetic code is enough to keep this man off the court. Damn shame, really. Fine man like Roush. Fine mind. Head in the right place on most of the issues. Little soft on the death penalty, but no one’s perfect. In Texas, we have to insist upon the efficacy of the death penalty—otherwise we’ve killed a lot of folks for no good reason. Elsewhere, a man can afford to have reasonable doubts. Fact remains—Roush could be a fine justice. A lot better than some of the idiots on the court now, men and women who only got there because their lives have been so damned boring they could survive the confirmation process. But we’ve got to kill this nomination. Whatever it takes, we’ve got to work together and do it.”
“Actually,” Potter offered, “I don’t think we have to do anything. According to my unofficial straw poll, Roush doesn’t have a chance of clearing the full Senate.”
Keyes smiled again. There was nothing quite so refreshing—if a bit exasperating—as youthful naïveté. “Roush can never get to the full Senate. He can’t survive our committee vote.”
“But—why?”
“Because if he does, every senator in our party will be forced to take a public stand on what by then will be, if indeed it is not already, a referendum on gay rights.”
“But our party has always opposed—”
“And the people do not need to be reminded of that point. Polls show it’s a major bone of contention. Possibly second only to our stance on abortion. The plurality of the people do not share our view. That’s why we must protect our brethren by preventing them from being forced to vote.”
“But—the only way they could
not
vote—?”
“You’ve got it exactly. They don’t vote if we kill the nomination in committee. But we have to come up with a reason for it. Something that isn’t about him being a homosexual. Even if it really is all about him being a homosexual.”
“And that would be…?”
“Don’t know yet.” Keyes polished off the last of his drink. “But I will. Soon. That’s my job. To protect the President from his own stupidity.”
“But—with what?”
“Don’t know yet.” Keyes’s eyes narrowed. He stared directly at his two companions, one, then the other. “But I have men looking for it. And I want you two to join the search.”
Matera leaned forward. “What it is we’re searching for?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need your help.” Keyes steepled his fingers before his face. “But I do. Make no mistake about it. This is important. Quite possibly the most important thing you have ever done or ever will do in your entire life. The Supreme Court is evenly divided ideologically. The new justice could well cast the deciding vote on every issue of importance for years to come. What’s more, if we don’t act swiftly and decisively, the fundamentalist support that has been the cornerstone of this party for at least twenty years could be lost. And that, my friends, could eviscerate the entire party and put us all out of work.”
Keyes paused, then sat up. “Equally important, we cannot give the Democrats a victory. Is it a coincidence that they picked up Roush the instant our party let him go? Of course not. We must stop the encroachment of rampant amoral permissive liberalism, the plague that is tearing this country apart, eating away at our moral fiber. Make no mistake about it—this is an ideological war. A battle for the soul of this once great nation. And as in every war, there will likely be casualties.” He hunched over his desk, staring straight ahead. “So—find me that smoking gun. The one that puts a bullet in the center of the forehead of Thaddeus Roush.” Keyes lowered himself slowly back into his chair. “And anyone else who gets in our way.”